


Give me your Hand

by Emerald147



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Drugs, Friendship, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Satan has a Heart, Soul Selling, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald147/pseuds/Emerald147
Summary: To shy to makes friends? Try selling your soul to Satan: the only logical solution. Or, at least, to Annabelle it seems to be.





	1. The Nightmares Chase Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NearlyNormal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NearlyNormal/gifts).



I woke in a panic. Nothing new but that would never change the fear curdling and writhing in my gut. The nightmares were an unstoppable force, they prowled around the edge of my conscience, playing hide and seek with my sanity; an endless dance of madness and pain and all that I wanted to forget but couldn't. My hands clenched around my sheets, tying myself to reality with any feeble grip I could muster. I felt my breathing rush, hot bursts of breath sporadically leaping in and out of my lungs; my vision became blurred and watery, images spinning in and out of my sight – real or not. My head span, dizzying pulses of pain slamming into my skull. Distantly, I was aware that, unless I got control of myself, I was spiraling towards a panic attack. It was washed away in a sea of other thoughts that were simultaneously in my head and non-existent. There was a sudden weight on my chest, it pushed and squeezed as if it was trying to break my ribs and reach my heart, only to crush it between desperation and hopelessness. 

My lungs were trapped and my hands were shaking and my body was shaking and my heart felt like it was going to combust and collapse all at once. My eyes were wide and unseeing as unspeakable images darted around like mad spirits, pulling my head to and fro and causing my muscles to convulse rapidly and randomly as I jerked around and full-body tremors wrote erratic symphonies across my spine and limbs. My fingers twitched and scratched and there was blood on my arms and face and I couldn't think and I couldn't breathe and I could see and I couldn't control my body and I was so tired. There was white, hot, pain behind my eyes and ugly tears tripped down my face yet I remained unaware of them until the bitter taste of salt slid into my senses – even then, it was a mere wisp of a feeling in comparison to the jolting pain that racked both my mind and body.

A blackness seeped into the corners of my vision, spreading inky fingers into my hellish thoughts and slowly consuming them as though it were a beast languishing in the destruction of its prey. The heaviness that was lying dormant on my chest, suddenly stretched and danced through my lungs, sucking and consuming all oxygen; mouth frothing and gaping I clawed at my throat, desperately trying to swallow a breath around the solid lump of fear that was clinging to the inside of my windpipe. While I could only just feel the sensation, I knew that my nails were etching their own horror story onto my skin – shredding and scraping as if the only way to rid myself on the torment convulsing in my mind was to rip myself open until all my secrets were laid bare in front of me, dripping with the red life that was dripping from my skin. I could feel the darkness oozing from all sides, making as if to drown me in my own consciousness.

I was half tempted to give in, to let myself fall and risk that it may be the first time I hit the bottom. And the last. But I didn't, I couldn't because that would mean admitting defeat, admitting that I am weaker that what I have beaten back before and that I was just as pathetic as I have been made to believe and that would mean admitting that they were right and they couldn't have been, they couldn't have.

I wasn't strong enough. Unconsciousness took me hostage but my nightmares were quick to follow, acting like a pack of rabid wolves chasing a rabbit. I may have slept, but I could not rest; plagued by what I dared not to speak of, I spent what time I had away from reality running and slipping and not-quite-escaping from the faceless ghouls of what I know will haunt me until I die. 

 

The night dragged on, the moon watching callously from overhead; the clouds drifting unaware and carefree as they tumbled about the sky leaving half-formed constellations peaking from behind. The night air was cool and silent, tangible in its stillness. It blew gently, almost consolingly, through my open window, piercing the waves of heat that rolled and writhed about, engulfing my small room in an unbearable boiling atmosphere. I had slept on, occasionally spasming and twisting and my eyes raced behind my eyelids. Sweat clung uncomfortably to my body, sliding across my skin and sticking to the sheets around me. 

My hair was splayed out around my head and flattened to my face, it knotted and tangled and twisted as I did – occasionally, my hand would stray towards my head and adjust a few strands, before they fell haphazardly into my face once more. I moved wildly, thrashing and twitching at unpredictable moments. I was not unused to the debilitating effects of these daunting nightmares however, even through the haze of the dream, I could feel my muscles aching and straining, pulling and pulsing. I could feel every burst of blood shoot through my veins and I could feel every unforgiving beat of my heart shake my body. I felt weak.

This continued in a similar fashion all throughout the night. Ever second feeling like hours as my mind spiraled in and out of reach, sanity floating around my fingertips yet bending and quivering, dodging my every half-hearted attempt to grasp it. Eventually I gave up, I was fighting a losing battle, a losing war. I let it crash over me.

~oOOo~

The sun was harsh. Only tentatively peaking over the windowsill yet the glare of light was cruel and cold despite its warmth. I shivered slightly, cold, dry sweat still crusted over my skin. My sight was hazy and my memory murky and frantic in its forgetfulness. I was slightly aware of what had happened the previous night, but I did not want to face it; I left the memories hidden and did not search for them – I wouldn't have liked what I could have found.

My eyelids felt thick and heavy and I wished to simply lie in the safe cocoon of blankets – though they may resemble a furnace – and hide from what I knew was happening today. I hoped that, perhaps, I would be forgotten, allowed to stay and pretend that it's because I'm ill and not because the very thought of facing anything this day might bring made a hot pressure build up behind my eyes. I commanded my body to get up – I couldn't simply ignore the problem; as much as I may have wished to create my own world under the soft, oppressive duvet, the rational side of me dragged me up anyway.

I regretted it immediately. The world span in a concerning manner and the air suddenly felt thin. I felt like an empty room, like there was nothing left inside me and something had devoured what little of me I had left. I stood and breathed. Slowly, I began to find my gravity, my balance. With slow movements, I showered – letting the icy water shock me into alertness and hurtle towards my back, hitting it forcefully – and threw on clothes that I was half-certain were clean. My movements slipped back to lethargy and I sighed, unable to muster the energy to complete my morning routine at a regular pace; I felt a thickness in my throat arise at my own incompetence but I forced it to dissipate – I wouldn't let it overrun me. Not now.


	2. One Day I'll Leave

My sluggish movements made my feet drag and my head fall forward and my eyes heavy. Though I was mostly unaware, the morning was bright and clear, the sun leisurely stretching over the sky, claiming it and twisting the true nature of the sky to a painfully happy blue. Whenever I attempted to lift me gaze the harsh, piercing beams of light forced me into submission; I blinked away the residue heat and told myself that was why my head was bowed, and not because I couldn't keep it up.

 

My steps were soft and my shoulders hunched as if they could fold in on themselves, collapse inwards and cause my body to implode. There was a weight in my head. It was dense and thick, a congealing mass that oozed and writhed; it stubbornly remained despite my best efforts and the tar-like substance acted like a gravity, pulling my thoughts into it and tainting them, coating them in the ideals that twisted my every movement. Sometimes it span and flipped and convulsed madly, reaching wildly for anything in its reach, sometimes growing and erratically shaking and leaping. Those were the times when it leached all my energy, stole all my will to do anything. There were other times where it lay still and dormant, crouched and tense, not moving but promising, promising that, though still now, it was only the silence between the thunder and lightning. I could tell the storm was getting closer.

 

In that moment, it lay still, yet somehow encompassing more than ever. Languidly stretching like a cat, occasionally darting towards my thoughts as if reminding me to never let my guard down. I let the sight of the unchanging pavement pull me away and back to reality. The bag on my back jolted and I hissed in pain as something dug into my back. I did not move it. Sometimes pain was my tangible grip when nothing else could keep me from floating aimlessly through unthought thoughts to escape from what I hoped to never face again. Whatever it was, it shifted again, once more dragging me from my mind – was almost grateful, I could tell I was slipping.

 

I kept walking. The wind blew harshly despite the two-faced warmth and my hair flew unpredictably about my head, occasionally blocking my sight and forcing me to hurriedly brush it away, lest I trip – I couldn't handle something going wrong. It felt like I was standing on and edge, the hypnotising chasm trying to draw me closer until I finally fell, and the slightest breath of wind could push me into the abyss that taunted me. My breathing became shaky and forced but I didn't allow it to go further, though there was pressure behind my eyes and a solid lump in my throat, I exerted what small reserve of energy I had remaining into keeping my breathing somewhat steady and stopped walking. I sat, sliding down a building wall to stop myself from collapsing. I recklessly chucked the folder and loose papers in my arms to the floor beside me and pulled my knees up to my chest, burying my face into them. I breathed. My fingers twisted in my skirt, pulling at loose threads and tapping meaningless rhythms into my skin. I lifted my head, my wayward hair falling recklessly around my shoulders; I had a hairband on my wrist but I could not bring myself to use it.

 

After a while, I stood. Coercing my exhausted body to finish the last few roads until I arrived. I trudged slowly on, hardly noticing my surroundings – it was hard enough to keep moving forward, I could spend no energy wondering about the number of strangers who passed me. The black mass was quieter – sometimes it did that, swung in and out of activity and rest – and I felt as though I could carry my head a little higher. The slight pressure in my lungs lifted and my breathing started to become more at ease. My eyes finally took is their surroundings and a sigh slipped passed my chapped lips unbidden.

 

A number of cars passed behind me as I stood motionless in front of the looming building, even from here I could hear the shrieks from my peers as they saw each other for the first time after the weekend. One would think the weekend was years long the way they were yelling and screaming. I took a few deep breaths, hoping they'd calm my wild nerves and lessen the nausea and dizziness that had suddenly, but not surprisingly, rushed into my head. They didn't. I forced my feet forwards and up the steps that greeted me, realising that, no matter what I did, the feelings that coursed through me would not be stopped. My heart was racing and I could feel sweat gathering at the back of my neck and my face was flushing uncomfortably. My eyes stayed glued to the grey steps as I once again catalogued every crack and awkward line of spray paint that some random teenager had probably painted trying to look 'cool' and to be accepted. The sounds from the open windows were becoming louder and I hunched my shoulders and turned away from them as if that could change the noise overwhelming my ears. Due to my shuffling pace, it took me another few minutes to reach the small door and type in the code that probably meant something or another to the head and push the unreasonably heavy door open just enough for me to slip in - I didn't check to see if there was anyone behind me but, judging from the hissed curse I heard from behind the door, there was. I cringed, hoping that whoever it was didn't notice that it was me. It might have seemed a small thing, but the people there would find any excuse to hold a grudge. No matter how ridiculous the reasoning may be.

 

My form room had a sweltering heat pulsing though it, though it might have just been me as others were wearing long sleeves and jumpers (also I distinctly remembered checking the weather - about 5-10 degrees - and it wasn't as if the school had working heating). Nevertheless, I could still feel sweat prickling along my back and it felt like there wasn't enough oxygen in the air. A shoulder crashed into mine and sent me tumbling forwards; I regained my balance and darted to catch my books before someone stood on them or stole them. I rolled my eyes as whoever pushed into me laughed loudly and gaudily – we were all in year 11 yet they were all still so juvenile. While, yes, I had been standing, frozen in the doorway there's no way I wouldn't have moved if I knew someone was behind me, so shoving into me was entirely unnecessary, but they seemed to find it hilarious. As I bent back up after snatching the last of my papers, a wave of dizziness seized me and I flung my arm out to grab madly at a desk to steady myself.

 

“Not high again, are we druggie?” A sneering voice came from beside me “I'd hate to see you hurt,” the sarcasm was tangible and thick. It was well known amongst the whole school that, during year 9, I somehow (read: my Mum's room) got hold of a large concoction of drugs and tried to overdose. Seeing as it was my only time ever taking them I only had to spend the rest of the school year (which was most of it) in a facility before they let me out back into the world just in time to start year 10. I wish I had been allowed to stay. They weren't kind to me, or caring at all – though, I suppose they did their jobs – but I didn't feel like a singularity, like I was so alone. I was surrounded by others who were very much like me. We didn't talk, but it had felt like we understood each other in some way. It was almost nice.

 

 _Don't say anything, just go to your desk or you'll make things worse you idiot,_ “No, but you were on Saturday.” _stupid, stupid, stupid! Now look what you've done!_ Richie's eyes widened almost comically behind his thick, rimmed glasses (he'd get contacts, but he couldn't be bothered – I was pretty sure his prescription was out of date too) and I knew I would have been laughing if it weren't for the fear curling in my gut. I was right too, I had seen him buying heroin from my Mum on Saturday – there was no mistaking his awkwardly pale limbs (even if it was just his fingers) and bright ginger hair that he could never seem to decide whether to tie up or not. His stare hardened and shot at me, landing like nails in my skull; I dug my fingernails into my palms then wrung my hands into the hem of my oversized jumper and let my eyes drop rapidly to the floor.

 

“What did you just say to me?” the whole room had gone deathly silent so I could hear his uncharacteristically low voice rumble out the question. His blue eyes darkened, seemingly becoming a stormy grey and the unpredictability of his hair combined with the mad glint in his eyes made him look mad. Without waiting for an answer, he lifted a hand as if he was going to strike me, I knew – _he knew –_ I wasn't going to run, that only ever made it worse. Suddenly, the door swung open, the hash sound of unoiled hinges making everyone in the room cringe. Richie ran back to his desk, looking slightly cowed. No teacher cared about me, but Ms Crale would never stand for fighting in her class, even Evelyn, the class clown, was always well behaved under Ms Crale's teaching. Fortunately, she only ever took morning and afternoon registration for me and not any of my other classes. Registration passed quickly, a few people ill and a few whom I was sure were definitely bunking off school. I lay my head on the cool window and let my thoughts drift. Most people would be at least a bit shaken after what had just happened but I was so used to it that it just slid over my head. I could relax slightly, with Ms Crale in the room, because I knew all eyes had to be at the front constantly or else we'd be in trouble – and I sit at the back, so no one could be staring at me from behind. There was still the ghost of a sensation creeping through my veins. I sighed, seeing everyone leave the room. Time to start this hell of a day.

 


	3. That Day is not Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter may contain somethings that are triggering to particular readers - though there is nothing graphic.

The beginning of my day was fine. I went to all my classes and the worst I got was a few hurtful notes and scrunched up balls of paper occasionally can flying at my head - though most of them missed and either hit someone else or landed pathetically on the floor beside me. Nothing out of the ordinary, unfortunately. The lectures were slow, and I could feel my head becoming foggy as the lost sleep from the night before crept up on me. Despite my best efforts, sleep did catch me once or twice – surprisingly, I was grateful for the constant, if irritating and unrelenting, flow of paper towards my head (or in that vague direction) as they kept me somewhat alert. None of the teachers really bothered with me. Ever since my time in the... hospital, they all decided I was a lost cause. There were a few that, at the very least, respected me. With nothing to do and no one to talk to, I spent most of year 9 doing extra study. Though it may seem boring to many others, they weren't the ones sitting in a hospital bed with nothing to do other that wait for your next meeting with someone who most likely didn't have the qualifications to be a therapist or a counsellor. My grades had improved dramatically after I returned. You'd think that I would have things easier in class, as the teachers would adore me. However, in a school like mine, good grades will get you no where.

 

I turned in a project that I had rushed the night before, despite having two weeks to complete it, and, while I knew it was accurate and probably worth at least three times that of the others (I didn't brag about my intelligence, or particularly enjoy it, I simply knew that this was the school for the children and teenagers who probably wouldn't live past twenty-five), the fact that I didn't have any paper that wasn't stained by my mum's coffee mug and that I had worked alone – voluntarily as anyone who did want to work with me was definitely doing it for the grade, as if going home and showing their parents that they did well would improve their life, like that one A could change everything, it never worked for me – most likely meant my grade would be lower than ever. I've always found it strange, how teachers preach about inner beauty, or the meaning of your words being more important that how you say them; as if anyone would take a drunk man seriously regardless of what he's saying. As if the quality of what you write matters far more than how it is presented. They say all this and yet I lost 40 marks out of 100 for poor presentation. It used to make me sad, now it just makes me laugh.

 

I didn't have time for lunch. I rarely did. Many of my peers simply thought that not eating was another scheme – another way to off myself. In reality, I couldn't be bothered. That was my usual excuse; today I had to rewrite my essay if I wanted to receive any marks at all – fortunately, they let me use school paper and so I managed. There once was a time that I relished school lunches, they were my only opportunity to eat a full meal that most probably wouldn't poison me. Anything I found at home would either be at least a month out of date, or so stale it probably belonged in a museum. I stopped because I was just too tired. Too tired of being tripped, having my face pushed into my meal, my food stolen, and sitting on the floor in some random corner – alone. I was too tired of the squirming feeling that stretched down my limbs, congealed in my stomach and made the thought of eating repulsive. It came from the people around me, as if simply by being near me they passed on a pain that they were immune too. I hated it. So I didn't eat.

 

I finished copying out the essay as fast as I could, noticing the tingle starting to travel down my arm. As soon as I fled the room (my head grateful for the lack of flickering lights) I quickly made my way out onto the grounds. Though small, it bordered a tiny forest (which probably better suited the name 'collection of trees' than forest) that was planted as a sign that the town supported the environment – they didn't, they simply wanted to look like a poster town – the kind anyone would want to move to. That forest was my escape. It may have been small, and maybe people often disappeared into it for a smoke, using the trees as their cover, it was my place, my sanctuary. I pulled out my sketchbook, tracing around the dapples that occasionally swayed slightly on my page. Later I turned those dapples into creatures, making my own world as an escape from the hellish place I knew to be my own. The breeze was gentle, calm as if it did not wish to disturb me. Sometimes, when I knew I was alone, I would whisper my fears to the wind, whisper my heartaches and my woes; whisper my secrets and troubles. Maybe part of me thought that if someone – something – knew what was on my mind, I'd feel less alone. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. I looked down at my sketchbook, reviewing what I had drawn. I liked drawing. Such a common thing to enjoy, but I never claimed to be unique or interesting. I liked it because it was something I could control, the pencil, or pen, became like an extra limb and I spun creations and worlds to my own liking. Such as it is with writing, those worlds were my worlds and I was the one in control, I was the only thing keeping whatever I created tied to this world and if I wanted to cut it off, I could. There was nothing to stop me other than my own mind, my own hand. It was exhilarating. Sometimes I'd spin a world as one would spin glass, with delicacy and care, with slow hands and a plan. Other times the planes or lives I'd form would be as rough as the sea in a storm, lines harsh and jagged, forging my creatures into movement, or my lands into fierce and unforgiving environments with brutal realities tied to them. The grass tickled my leg, drawing my sharply out of my thoughts as a strong breeze was pulled after it.

 

The jolt from my mind, made we glance around myself, as if something could have forced such sudden wind. I was still alone. I checked my watch. It was probably broken and the face was cracked slightly but it was usually somewhat reliable. Seeing the time (1:50), I shoved everything into my bag – noting that I'd need to re-stitch a hole that had opened again – and dashed into the building, ignoring the unoriginal taunts that followed me, I had heard them all before. My hair was lashing behind me and I longed for a hairband as a strand smacked me in the face, but my last one had broken earlier in the day and no one would lend me one (well, a year 7/8 probably would have, but I'd never start a conversation with someone I didn't know – or anyone I did to be honest). To be fair, I still had 15 minutes until registration so I didn't need to rush, I just prefered to get to my seat in the back row before anyone else arrived – and Ms Crale was always at least 5 minutes early, so it couldn't hurt.

 

The rest of my day passed in a similar fashion, slow and repetitive. Because I wasn't stupid, I left through the back entrance, knowing Richie would want to 'finish what he started', as the saying goes. I find him repulsive sometimes – the fact that he lords over everyone, deeming himself the king of this pathetic place, as if his self-appointed reign would make him more important, more loved. As if any of this mattered in the end. As if, once he left, his crown would come with him and he could continue his imaginary rule. Part of me wanted to see the look on his face when he realised that's not the way the world works, that his crown had been as much of a dream as his importance, while the other part of me just found it sad.

 

The walk home was uneventful. No one spoke to me, no one so much as glanced in my direction. In my head, I replayed the days events, cataloging them in case I needed them late (I knew I probably wouldn't). The suns last rays were flickering with a mad intensity along the horizon as the days were getting shorter and the sun seemed ever more desperate to hold a place in the sky. I dismissed the notion as ridiculous. The sun continued to set. 

 

A strange terror gripped me as I opened the dilapidated door. A disgusting concoction of odors wafted through the hallway - a concoction I knew too well. The smell of acid, burning plastic, and cleaning chemicals made me gag and run to my room. I knew seeing my mum right now would probably get me killed. I knew all too well how to recognize the sharp smells that were overwhelming me and I knew too well the red that would infect her eyes, and the crazy gleam that would rest at the forefront of her eyes as she rode on the high that her mix of drugs had created. Part of me knew I should check on her. Part of me didn't care.

 


End file.
